Work Text:
The Decepticon engineering wing had ceased functioning.
The six Constructicons were sprawled across the floor of their workshop in various states of profound, inconsolable despair.
Scrapper was hugging a steel girder, staring blankly at the ceiling. Bonecrusher was weeping into a bucket of industrial solvent. They had seen it with their own optics: their beloved, perfectly organized autobot tactician, Prowl, walking away from a bar with a ridiculously charming, smooth talking sports car.
Prowl was dating someone. The dream was dead...Fucking ( Sorry *uck uck*) Fragging dead.
"I can't build..." Mixmaster sobbed, dramatically throwing a wrench across the room. "What is the point of connecting two landmasses if our sparks remain forever divided?!"
Just then, Starscream strutted into the workshop. The seeker was holding a clipboard, his ruby optics glaring down at the pathetic pile of green engineers.
"What in the name of the Pit is going on in here?!" Starscream shrieked, kicking Bonecrusher’s bucket. "The cannons are offline, the shields are fluctuating, and you six overgrown tonka trucks are lying around like you’ve been deactivated! Get up and work!"
Hook, who was already running on zero sleep and absolute heartbreak, finally snapped. He slowly stood up, wiping a smear of grease from his cheek.
"Why don't you build it yourself, you screeching, unbearable, micromanaging little bitch," Hook growled.
The workshop went dead silent. Scrapper gasped and Bonecrusher stopped crying.
Starscream’s optics widened and his wings hiked up to a ninety degree angle of lethal offense. He didn't fire his null-rays...he just turned on his heel and marched straight toward the command deck.
Ten micro cycles later, the six Constructicons were kneeling in a line in the center of the throne room, shaking with genuine fear.
Megatron loomed over them, his red optics burning with dark, intimidating fury. Starscream stood slightly behind the warlord, arms crossed, looking incredibly smug and expecting bloody retribution.
"Let me make this perfectly, undeniably clear to you crap laborers," Megatron rumbled, his voice echoing off the plasteel walls. "Starscream is my Second in Command and he is also your air Commander. You will treat him with the utmost respect, and you will never, ever use that kind of derogatory language toward him again."
Starscream smirked, puffing out his chest.
Megatron then placed a hand gently on Starscream’s aft, looking back down at the Constructicons.
"Because," Megatron added serious and dripping with possessive, toxic warlord romance, "I am the only one on this entire planet who is allowed to call him a bitch. He is my bitch."
The Constructicons blinked.
Starscream’s smug smirk instantly shattered. He slowly turned his head to look at Megatron, his faceplate unhinged with fury.
"Excuse me?!" Starscream shrieked, his voice pitching so high it nearly shattered the throne room windows. "What did you just say to me?!"
"I am defending your honor, Starscream, shut your bitch-ass vocalizer and let me..." Megatron stated, oblivious to his own catastrophic phrasing.
"YOU ARE NOT DEFENDING MY HONOR, YOU RUSTING, ARROGANT, TIN PLATED MEGALOMANIAC!" Starscream roared, lunging at Megatron and actively trying to strangle Megatron with his bare hands.
As Megatron and Starscream devolved into a violent, screeching, marital wrestling match on the floor of the throne room, the Constructicons simply buried their faces in their hands, their heartbreak now compounded by the agonizing misery of being trapped in the middle of their leaders' toxic relationship.
Meanwhile, across the planetary divide in Iacon, the heartbreak had manifested in an different, highly kinetic way.
Inside the central autobot recreational arcade, Jazz was suffering. But Jazz didn't cry into a bucket of solvent. Jazz coped through rhythm.
For the past forty eight hours straight, the smooth-talking lieutenant had been standing on the center pad of the arcade's advanced Pump It Up dance machine. The difficulty was set to maximum (Level 99: Nightmare Mode).
Jazz’s visor was cracked. His cooling fans were screaming and puddle of blue coolant and condensation had formed around his pedes. He was executing flawless fast footwork to a 240 BPM techno track, sobbing hysterically while perfectly hitting every single directional arrow.
"Left! Right! Center! Why did he leave me?! Jump! Spin! I thought we had a vibe!" Jazz wailed, his pedes blurring across the glowing panels.
Standing behind the machine, Arcee and Hot Rod were watching paralyzed.
"He’s been playing the same song for two days," Hot Rod whispered, traumatized. "If he stops moving, I think his spark is going to literally explode..."
The arcade doors got open, and Optimus Prime rushed in, having finally been briefed on the situation. The autobot leader took one look at his incredibly cool, depressed lieutenant aggressively dancing his pain away, and sighed.
"Jazz, my friend," Optimus said gently, stepping toward the machine. "Please, step off the pad. Prowl's romantic choices do not define your worth."
"DON'T YOU TOUCH THE PLUG, OPPY!" Jazz hissed like a feral cat, completely missing a beat but recovering with a flawless backflip. "THE MUSIC IS THE ONLY THING HOLDING MY ARMOR TOGETHER! PERFECT COMBO! PERFECT COMBO!"
But the tragic irony of the entire situation was that neither the Constructicons nor Jazz needed to be suffering.
Prowl wasn't dating anyone.
Prowl was hanging upside down, securely wrapped in layers of thick, sticky, purple webbing in a damp, subterranean cave.
The "charming sports car" from the bar had been a paid actor. A mercenary hired to lure the tactician down a dark alley.
And standing directly beneath the web, holding a silver tray overflowing with energon treats, was Tarantulas.
The spider like scientist was looking up at his captive with an expression unsettling obsession.
"Eat up, my beautiful little law enforcement officer," Tarantulas giggled, his mandibles twitching as he offered a glowing energon cake on a long mechanical arm. "You need to keep your strength up! Oh, Prowl, we are going to be so happy together. I love—"
"I HATE YOU!"
Prowl’s voice echoed through the cavern.
"I HATE YOU WITH THE BURNING INTENSITY OF A THOUSAND DYING SUNS!" Prowl screamed, his door wings violently thrashing against the thick webbing. "I SWEAR BY THE ALLSPARK, WHEN I GET OUT OF THIS COCOON, I AM GOING TO RIP OFF ALL EIGHT OF YOUR DISGUSTING, CREEPY LITTLE LEGS AND SHOVE THEM SO FAR UP YOUR EXHAUST PORT YOU WILL BE COUGHING UP TARANTULATOES UNTIL THE NEXT ICE AGE!"
Tarantulas sighed dreamily, clutching his hands over his spark. "Oh, the way you assert authority... it makes my servos weak."
"I AM NOT ASSERTING AUTHORITY, I AM THREATENING YOU WITH PREMEDITATED DISMEMBERMENT!" Prowl shrieked, his cooling fans hyperventilating. "THAT MECH AT THE BAR WAS A HACK! HE HAD TERRIBLE TASTE IN ENERGON! YOU ARE A PATHETIC, MULTI OPTIC FREAK, AND I WOULD RATHER INTERFACE WITH A RUSTING SCRAP COMPACTOR THAN EAT ONE OF YOUR DISGUSTING LITTLE CAKES! SOMEONE KILL ME!"
As Tarantulas giggled and continued to try and force feed him sweets, Prowl threw his helm back and unleashed another string of swear words so vile, so incredibly descriptive, and so binding, that if the Constructicons or Jazz could hear him, their heartbreak would have been cured.
Down in the lower decks of the Nemesis, the Constructicons were still grounded, confined to their communal engineering quarters. The plasteel walls were usually thick enough to block out the ambient noise of the warship.
But they were not thick enough to block out the command tier.
For the past twenty minutes, the violent, screeching argument between Megatron and Starscream had echoed through the ventilation shafts. Threats of dismantling, shrieks of indignation, and the sound of furniture being thrown had kept the Constructicons huddled together in misery.
And then, the yelling suddenly stopped.
The ship fell into a terrifying, heavy silence. The Constructicons looked at each other, their optics wide.
One click....Two clicks.
Clank. ...Clank. ...Clank....CLANK CLANKK!!!
The undeniable sound of thick cybertronian armor repeatedly colliding began to echo through the vents, accompanied by the muffled, unmistakable sound of the Seeker's vocalizer hitting a different, highly compromised pitch.
In the hallway outside the engineering bay, the doors open. Soundwave walked past. The communications officer didn't say a word. He just let out a long and exhausted sigh, holding a stack of freshly laundered towels, and began the long walk up to Megatron’s quarters.
It was just another solar cycle in the Decepticon High Command.
Inside the room, the Constructicons tried to ignore the ceiling vibrating above them. They had bigger problems.
"We need a analysis," Scrapper declared, wiping his optical coolant and pulling up a blurry security photo of the sports car Prowl had walked away with. "Look at this mech. What does he have that we don't?"
"He has hadsomemech chassis plating," Hook noted bitterly.
"He has a custom shiny paint job," Mixmaster added.
"He has... swagger," Bonecrusher whispered in awe.
The six green construction vehicles looked down at their own bulky, grease stained armor. A collective, terrible, profoundly misguided spark of inspiration lit up the room.
"If Prowl wants a smooth talking, flashy street cruiser," Scrapper announced, his fist slamming onto a workbench, "then we will become the smoothest, flashiest mechs on this planet! To the paint bay!"
Thirty micro cycles later, the Constructicons emerged and it was an absolute crime against visual aesthetics.
They had raided the confiscated contraband locker. Scrapper was wearing an oversized, synthetic fur collar. Bonecrusher had welded a massive gold chain around his neck cabling. Mixmaster had painted a hyper reflective, hot pink racing stripes down his arms, and Hook was wearing a pair of oversized and unnecessary shutter shades. They looked like a gang of green construction pimps.
"Let's roll out," Scrapper commanded, adjusting his fur collar. "We are going to steal our babe back."
Across the planet, the electronic screaming of the Pump It Up machine finally died.
Optimus Prime had bypassed the machine's external controls and unplugged the power cord from the arcade wall. The techno music wound down with a pathetic womp womp sound.
Jazz immediately collapsed backward off the dance pad, his visor flickering, his internal fans roaring like jet engines as he hit the arcade floor.
"Jazz, please," Optimus said softly, kneeling beside his lieutenant. The Prime’s voice was rich, soothing, and laced with absolute, boundless empathy. "You are pushing your physical parameters to a critical failure point. Heartbreak is a heavy burden, my friend, but you cannot let it ruin you."
Jazz groaned, his audio receptors ringing. He slowly tilted his helm back, looking up.
His optical visor reset, clearing the static of the past 48 hours. The arcade lights cast a soft, glowing halo behind Optimus Prime’s helm. Jazz blinked. He looked at the Prime’s immaculate chest plating. He looked at the gentle and incredibly expressive blue optics shining behind the battle mask and looked at the undeniable, majestic presence of his leader.
Jazz’s processor rebooted.
Wait a micro cycle, Jazz thought, the techno induced grief instantly evaporating. When did Orion get so... pretty?
"Prowl?" Jazz whispered, his vocalizer suddenly regaining its signature, smooth-as-silk baritone. "Prowl who, Prime?"
Optimus blinked, his optical ridges furrowing in pure, innocent confusion. "Your... your sparkmate? The mech you have been grieving for two solar cycles?"
"Grieving?" Jazz chuckled smoothly. He rolled over, propping himself up on one elbow, striking an incredibly relaxed and charismatic pose on the arcade floor. He lowered his visor just a fraction, looking up at Optimus with a devastatingly charming smirk. "Nah, Prime. That was just... cardio. Gotta keep the chassis looking sleek. Speaking of sleek, I gotta say, the lighting in here is really catching the color on your faceplate. It’s working for you, pretty stuff."
Optimus stopped dead.
The ancient wisdom of the Matrix, the genius of a thousand battles, the willpower of the Prime lineage—none of it had prepared him for the most charismatic mech in Iacon abruptly turning his flirtation up to maximum capacity.
"I..." Optimus stammered, his internal temperature suddenly spiking. "I do not... the lighting is standard fluorescent, Jazz."
"Maybe," Jazz purred, slowly sitting up and leaning a little closer, invading the Prime's personal space. "But you’re making it look like a prime lounge. Say, Op, when’s the last time you took a break? Just you, me, maybe a drive down the crystalline coast? I bet you got some 'smooth moves' hidden under all that armor."
Optimus Prime’s optics blew wide open.
He possessed the strict, entrenched moral code of a religious nun. He had zero defense mechanisms against this level of concentrated rizz. Optimus backed away, his hands waving frantically in front of his chest.
"I am... I...." Optimus panicked, his vocalizer pitching up in severe distress. "T-The energon rationing forms! Elita is... I mean, I have to go read a datapad on agricultural yields! Immediately!"
"Don't run, Op!" Jazz laughed, hopping to his pedes energized, his heartbreak cured by the thrill of a new, impossibly difficult chase. "I can help you with your yields! Come back here, you majestic saint!"
Deep within the damp confines of the subterranean laboratory, Prowl was completely losing his mind.
"But Prowl, my sweet spark!" Tarantulas cooed, pacing beneath the massive web, wringing his creepy, multi jointed servos together. "You cannot deny our bond! What about our laboratory made son?! He has your door wings and my absolute lack of ethical boundaries!"
"I HAVE NO SON!" Prowl roared from his upside-down cocoon, his vocalizer red-lining. "I HAVE NEVER DONATED GENETIC MATERIAL TO YOU! I HAVE NEVER CONSENTED TO A SPLICING PROCEDURE! I AM GOING TO BEAT YOU TO DEATH WITH THE LAWSUIT!"
Tarantulas gasped dramatically, clutching a hand to his chest. "You are so passionate when you threaten legal action—"
KA KA KABBOM FUCKING BOM
The reinforced stone wall of Tarantulas’ secret laboratory violently exploded inward.
A cloud of dust and debris filled the cavern. Through the settling smoke, backlit by the sparking wires of the destroyed wall, emerged six green silhouettes.
They were strutting. They were bouncing on their shock absorbers, rolling their shoulders with a incredibly forced, hyper exaggerated swagger.
Scrapper stepped into the light. He was wearing a pink feather boa around his thick neck cabling.
Bonecrusher followed, grinning widely to reveal a custom welded, blindingly bright solid gold grill over his dental plates.
Mixmaster had somehow acquired a velvet, wide brimmed pimp hat, tilting it down over his optics with a dramatic, smooth criminal tilt, while Hook casually adjusted his shutter shades. They were a walking, clanking green catastrophe of street level rizz.
"What's good, baby?" Scrapper purred, his voice dropping into a raspy baritone as he leaned against a stalagmite that immediately crumbled under his weight. "Heard you were tired of those cheap, compact sports cars. Heard you needed some real... heavy machinery in your life."
The cavern fell into deafening silence.
Hanging upside down in the web, Prowl stopped screaming. He stared at the six constructicons. If Prowl’s rigid, emotionless faceplate had been equipped with eyebrows, they would have been knitted together in a singular expression of soul crushing disgust and confusion.
Directly below him, Tarantulas slowly lowered the tray of energon cakes. The creepy spider scientist looked at the green, feather wearing engineers, his multiple optics blinking out of sync. He mirrored Prowl’s expression perfectly.
For the first time in cybertronian history, an autobot tactician and a deranged predacon mad scientist were telepathically united in their bafflement.
"...What in the name of the Allspark are you wearing?" Prowl whispered, completely forgetting that he was currently kidnapped.
"We got the drip, Prowl," Bonecrusher announced, flashing his golden teeth and doing a little shimmy that made his armor clank awkwardly. "We upgraded our aesthetics. We are... what do the organics call it? Fly. We are fly."
"You look like a flock of irradiated parrots," Tarantulas hissed, his disgust growing. "You are getting pink feathers all over my centrifuge!"
"Shut it, spider freak," Hook snapped, pushing his shutter shades up the bridge of his nose. "We ain't here for you. We're here for the big boobie boss."
Mixmaster tipped his hat, strutting forward with a highly exaggerated, bouncing walk. He stopped directly under the web, looking up at the confused Prowl.
"Hey there, gorgeous," Mixmaster said, attempting to playfully bite his lower lip component, which just resulted in a horrible metal-on-metal grinding noise. "Why don't you ditch the web, and let us show you how a real crew pours a foundation? We got... cement."
"I want to die," Prowl stated blankly, his optics wide and traumatized.
"Don't play hard to get, baby," Scrapper cooed, tossing one end of his feather boa over his shoulder. He reached out, attempting to gently caress Prowl’s dangling door wing.
"DO NOT TOUCH ME!" Prowl shrieked, instantly reverting to his feral, screaming state.
"Excuse me!" Tarantulas screeched, aggressively stepping between Scrapper and the web. "He is my captive! He is the other parent of my laboratory-made child! And furthermore, your outfits are a crime against the visual spectrum! If you are going to woo my hostage, you will do it with proper approved elegance, not this cheap, commercialized streetwear!"
"Oh, you want a piece of the swagger?!" Bonecrusher yelled, flexing his arms and flashing his gold teeth directly in Tarantulas' face.
As the six pimp-dressed Constructicons and the offended spider scientist devolved into a screaming, chaotic brawl right in the middle of the laboratory, Prowl simply closed his optics.
While the pimp-Constructicons and Tarantulas were busy brawling over who had the superior aesthetic, Prowl silently dislocated his own shoulder joints, shimmied his wrists out of the webbing, and retrieved his concealed acid pellet blaster.
He dropped to the floor with a lethal.
The fighting stopped. All seven mechs looked at the unhinged Prowlie.
"I am done," Prowl stated coldly.
He shot Tarantulas squarely in the center mass, grabbed the spider scientist by his mandibles, and delivered a brutal, merciless series of swift kicks to his chassis until Tarantulas rolled into a corner, sobbing.
Prowl then turned to the Constructicons. Without a single word of hesitation, he aimed his blaster downward.
He shot every single one of them directly in their pedes.
As the feather wearing, gold toothed engineers collapsed to the floor, howling and clutching their smoking feet, Prowl holstered his weapon. He extended both of his middle digits, flipping them all off with mathematical precision.
"I hope you all rust," Prowl cursed, turning his back on them and marching out of the cavern, unleashing a terrifying, unbroken stream of aggressive profanity all the way back to the surface.
Meanwhile, in the )Iacon science sector, Optimus was fleeing for his life.
He burst through the doors of Wheeljack and Skyfire’s joint laboratory, slamming the lock behind him and panting heavily.
At the center workstation, Skyfire—the scientist shuttle, currently-divorced father—was in the middle of an incredibly delicate procedure. He was hunched over a microscopic, an hyper volatile energon sotope, holding a pair of tweezers with surgical stillness.
"Just... one... micro calibration..." Skyfire whispered, a bead of condensation forming on his brow.
Optimus’s heavy, panicked entrance sent a massive seismic tremor through the floorboards. Skyfire’s hand twitched. The needle slipped.
A huge explosion of bright smoke completely engulfed Skyfire’s workstation, leaving the giant scientist covered head-to-toe in soot, his reading glasses blown askew.
"YES!" Wheeljack cheered from the other side of the room, throwing his arms in the air. "I knew it was unstable! Brilliant!"
"Prime?" Skyfire coughed out a puff of smoke, staring blankly at his leader. "Why are you—"
"Op-ti-mus~!" Jazz’s smooth, impossibly charming voice echoed from the hallway outside. The door keypad began to beep as Jazz hacked the lock.
Optimus panicked. His religious nun logic circuits fried. He needed a distraction...
Optimus sprinted across the lab, grabbed the soot-covered Skyfire by the collar, hoisted himself up, and jumped into the confused giant's arms. Just as the doors got open and Jazz strutted inside, Optimus grabbed Skyfire’s face and planted a desperate, dramatic kiss squarely on his lips.
Skyfire’s expression was utterly deadpan. His bright blue optics were wide open, Wheeljack slowly lowered his cheering arms. Optimus kept his optics squeezed shut, praying the illusion was working.
Jazz paused in the doorway and he slowly lowered his visor, taking in the sight of the Prime aggressively making out with the giant scientist.
A slow and incredibly wicked laugh rumbled from Jazz’s chest.
"Jokes on you, Optimus," Jazz purred, leaning against the doorframe with a devastating smirk. "I'm into that crap too. Make room for three."
Optimus spark nearly stopped beating and he detached from Skyfire, his faceplates burning bright blue with fear, realizing his plan had spectacularly backfired.
But before Jazz could take a single step into the room, a shadow loomed in the hallway behind him.
Prowl.
The Prowlie looked feral. He was covered in sticky webbing and his door wings were vibrating with murderous rage.
Prowl didn't say a word...He just marched up behind Jazz, grabbed the incredibly smooth lieutenant by the waist, tucked him firmly under his arm like a literal notebook, and turned around, carrying the struggling saboteur out of the lab.
"Hey! Wait! Prowl, baby, I can explain!" Jazz yelped, dangling under Prowl's arm as they disappeared down the corridor.
In the lab, Optimus let out a shuddering breath of relief. He smiled awkwardly, brushing the dust off his chest plates.
He looked up at Skyfire. The giant scientist was still holding Optimus in his arms. Skyfire’s faceplate was a mask of shock... but his internal cooling fans were roaring... He was horrified, yes. But he was also a little bit turned on.
Optimus realized this immediately.
"Haha... well! Agricultural yields!" Optimus laughed awkwardly, scrambling out of Skyfire’s arms, moonwalking desperately backward toward the door. "Praise the Matrix! Goodbye!"
Outside in the streets of Iacon, Prowl was marching down the boulevard, still carrying Jazz under his arm like a rolled-up newspaper, aggressively scolding him.
"I am gone for two megacycles and you attempt to interface with the Optimus?!" Prowl lectured, his voice sharp enough to cut glass.
Suddenly, the ground trembled.
The sky darkened and the civilians in the plaza began to scream and run in terror.
Towering above the skyline, the Constructicons had combined. Devastator loomed over the city, a engine of destruction. But because they were still wearing their 'swagger' upgrades, Devastator had a feather boa and one giant, glowing gold tooth.
Devastator raised his fists, letting out a ground-shaking roar. "PROWL! WE HAVE COME TO—"
Prowl didn't even drop Jazz.
The tactician stopped walking. He looked up at the towering combiner and he simply pointed a single, trembling digit of fury directly at the giant's face.
"YOU FUCKING DUMB PUSSY IDIOTS!" Prowl screamed at the top of his vocalizer.
Devastator stopped mid roar.
The condensed authority of Prowl's rage hit the combiner’s shared processor like a physical blow. The titan’s shoulders slumped.
With a deafening crash that shook the entire city block, Devastator violently dropped to his knees, cracking the pavement. The towering engine of destruction bowed his head, clasping his giant hands together in front of the tiny tactician.
"WE ARE SORRY!" Devastator’s combined, booming voice sobbed, gigantic tears of optical coolant pooling in the streets. "PLEASE FORGIVE US, PROWL! WE JUST WANTED TO BE FLY!"
Prowl let out a exhausted sigh, readjusting his grip on Jazz, completely done with the entire solar cycle.
The colossal, weeping form of Devastator didn't stay combined for long. Overwhelmed by the force of Prowl’s verbal reprimand and their own crushing guilt, the combiner violently broke apart.
With a series of metallic clangs, the giant separated back into the six individual Constructicons. They hit the pavement, scrambled to their pedes, and immediately swarmed the tiny tactician.
"We're so sorry, baby!" Mixmaster wailed, throwing his arms around Prowl’s waist.
"We'll take off the feathers!" Scrapper sobbed, aggressively kissing Prowl’s cheekplate.
Still trapped under Prowl’s arm, Jazz simply watched the chaos unfold. But the Constructicons were relentless. They grabbed Prowl's shoulders, they stroked his door wings, and in the peak of the madness, Bonecrusher—still entirely obsessed with Prowl’s structure—leaned forward and delivered a inappropriate bite directly to Prowl’s chest plating.
Prowl dropped Jazz.
The tactician’s optics went terrifyingly blank.
Prowl inhaled deeply. He opened his mouth, preparing to unleash a curse so devastating, so historically unprecedented, that it would have shattered the space time continuum itself.
RHHHIISSSSSSSSSSSSSSSKKKK--UGKKKKK
Before a single sound could leave his vocalizer, a spark of blue electricity shot out of Prowl’s audio receptors. His logic circuits suffered a catastrophic aneurysm. His optics flickered, his knees buckled, and Prowl collapsed face-forward onto the pavement offline.
When Prowl’s optics slowly fluttered back online, he was staring at a sterile, blindingly white ceiling.
He was lying on a rigid medical slab. The ambient hum of life support monitors beeped in the background. Standing over him with a datapad and a exhausted expression was Ratchet.
"Welcome back to the land of the functioning, Prowl," Ratchet grumbled, shining a tiny penlight into the tactician's optics. "Are you alright?"
Prowl groaned, rubbing his helm. "My processor feels like it was destroyed... but yes. I am functional."
"Good," Ratchet sighed. "Because you have visitors. And they have been driving me insane."
The medical bay doors got open.
Prowl’s spark sank. Marching into the room was Jazz, followed closely by all six constructicons. They had scrubbed off their paint, ditched the feathers and the gold teeth, and returned to their standard armor.
But worst of all, they were carrying flowers. Not just a bouquet—they were carrying entire bushes of crystalline cybertronian flora, burying the medbay in an avalanche of colorful romance.
"Prowler!" Jazz purred, strutting forward with a bouquet of glowing blue roses. "You gave us quite a scare!"
"We brought you the vegetation you seem to enjoy!" Scrapper added proudly, dumping a literal crate of metal tulips onto the foot of the medical berth.
Prowl’s internal temperature spiked. The rage flooded his systems. He sat up, his vocalizer charging up to scream them all out of the room.
Ratchet slammed his hand down on Prowl’s chest, pinning him to the slab.
"Do not speak!" Ratchet barked, "Listen to me very carefully, Prowl. You just suffered a Grade-5 logic-circuit aneurysm. Your processor is currently held together by medical duct tape and willpower. If you get angry, if your blood pressure spikes, or if you attempt to curse at them... your processor will literally melt into slag. You will die."
He couldn't yell and he couldn't curse. He was trapped in a nightmare of inescapable affection.
The profound, crushing injustice of the universe was simply too much for his fractured mind to bear. Prowl’s lip component trembled. His optics shuttered. And, for the first time in his entire operational history, thick tears of optical coolant spilled over his cheekplates.
He began to cry.
"Oh my Primes," Hook gasped, dropping his bouquet. "Look at him."
"He's weeping," Mixmaster whispered, misreading the situation. "He's so moved by our devotion that his emotional inhibitors have completely dissolved."
"Awww, Prowl, don't cry," Jazz cooed, leaning over the medical slab and pressing a gentle, lingering kiss to Prowl’s forehead. "We're right here...with you...and maybe forever..."
"Group hug!" Bonecrusher declared happily.
Before Ratchet could stop them, the Constructicons and Jazz swarmed the medical berth again. They buried the sobbing tactician in a pile of armor, crystalline flowers, and chaotic affection.
Prowl wept harder into the pillows, his body trapped beneath the crushing weight of his unwanted adorers.
He felt Jazz stroking his helm and felt Scrapper kissing his hand.
And, right on cue, he felt Bonecrusher lean in and deliver another affectionate, utterly infuriating bite directly to his chest plating.